Minho had never been the affectionate type.

From the very beginning of your relationship, he’d made that clear—not with words, but with the way he carried himself. He didn’t cling, didn’t shower you with compliments, didn’t show jealousy the way others did. His love was quiet, controlled, often hidden behind a calm expression and a guarded tone.

But you knew him.

You knew the signs.

The way his jaw tightened just slightly. The way his responses grew shorter. The way he withdrew instead of confronting.

That was Minho when he was jealous.

And today, he was definitely jealous.

The front door opened a little later than usual, the sound echoing softly through the apartment. You were in the living room when Minho stepped inside, jacket still on, keys tossed carelessly onto the counter. Bangchan followed behind him, chatting easily, his presence warm and familiar.

“Hey,” you said with a smile, standing up. “Chan, it’s good to see you.”

Bangchan returned the greeting instantly, smiling back at you. “Hey! Sorry for coming over so late. Minho dragged me here—said he needed to work in the studio.”

You laughed lightly. “That sounds like him.”

Minho didn’t say anything.

He didn’t look at you either.

He brushed past you without a word, heading straight toward the hallway that led to his home studio. No greeting. No acknowledgment. Not even a glance.

Bangchan noticed it immediately. His smile faltered just a bit as he glanced between you and Minho’s retreating figure. “Uh… I’ll go set up,” he said awkwardly, following Minho after giving you a small apologetic look.

The door to the studio closed soon after.

You stood there for a moment, the silence settling in your chest. You didn’t need to ask what was wrong. You already knew.

Earlier that day, a coworker of yours had walked you to your car after work—completely innocent, nothing more than casual conversation. You’d mentioned it briefly over text, not thinking much of it.

Minho had read the message.

He hadn’t replied.

Now, the weight of his silence pressed heavier than any argument ever could.

Hours passed with muted music and low voices filtering through the studio walls. Bangchan laughed occasionally, Minho’s voice calm but distant. Not once did Minho come out to check on you. Not once did he call your name.

This was his pattern.

When he was hurt, insecure, or jealous, he didn’t explode. He shut down.

Eventually, Bangchan left, offering you another friendly smile before heading out. The apartment fell quiet again, save for the soft hum of equipment being powered down.

Minho finally emerged from the studio.

He loosened his sleeves, eyes tired, posture tense. For a moment, he hesitated when he saw you still in the living room. His gaze flickered over you—brief, careful—before he looked away.

“You didn’t eat,” he said flatly, noticing the untouched food on the table.

“You didn’t talk to me,” you replied just as calmly.

Silence.

He clenched his jaw, shoulders rising slightly with a slow breath. “I didn’t want to say something I’d regret.”

You softened at that. “So instead, you said nothing.”

He finally looked at you then. Really looked at you. His eyes weren’t cold—just conflicted, guarded, carrying too many thoughts he didn’t know how to voice.

“I know you didn’t do anything wrong,” he admitted quietly. “I just… don’t like the way people look at you.”

There it was.

Not jealousy. Not accusation. Just fear, wrapped in restraint.

You stepped closer, reaching for his hand. He didn’t pull away this time.

“I’m here,” you said gently. “I’ve always been.”

His fingers tightened around yours, grip firm but unsure. Minho wasn’t good with words. He never had been.

But this—this was him trying.

And for Minho, that meant everything.